All the Sweet Promises. Elizabeth Elgin
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used to getting her own way, Lucinda considered. And those eyelashes! They were longer than Mama’s and Mama’s were false. Chief Pillmoor’s eyelashes were nothing short of magnificent, and thick and spiky as a stableyard brush.
‘I see. And Bainbridge?’
‘Bainbridge’s train was late, an’ all. Four hours late into Glasgow. It’s the bombin’, see?’
‘And you missed not only the 8 P.M. train but the next one, too?’ Chief Pillmoor’s eyebrows winged upwards questioningly.
‘Ah, well. Yes. We were all starvin’, Chief, so we went to this canteen. That’s when the sirens went and we had to go to the shelter. And by the time we got the all clear, the midnight train had gone, too. We waited on the station all night and it was perishin’. But it’s the war,’ she added without guile, and because the chief had taken a liking to the woman with the thick Liverpool accent who met her gaze without flinching, she told them to cut along to the galley; if they were lucky they might just make standeasy.
Never had three Wren ratings moved with such swiftness, drawn by the tantalizing promise of hot tea. They had made it. They had arrived at their given destination, had ridden out the Chief Wren’s wrath, and tea – and toast, too, if their noses were to be believed – were within blessed reach. Hopes high again, they tapped on the galley door.
‘Well, what d’you know, girls? We did it.’ Gently Vi eased off her shoes, wriggled her toes, then stood for a blissful moment, eyes closed. ‘An’ we’re stayin’ together, too. Smashin’, innit?’
Around them lay the litter of kit they had carried to the very top of the big old house; to cabin 9, their strange bare room. They gazed without emotion at three black-painted iron bedsteads piled with folded blankets and sheets, at the familiar blue and white anchor-decorated bedcovers and the essential thick black curtains at the window. This, then, was their home for as long as the war lasted. For the duration.
‘At least we’ve got beds and not bunks.’
‘Yes, and it’s nice and quiet up here.’
‘It’s luv’ly. Let’s get our beds made up and do our unpackin’. Who wants which bed, or doesn’t it matter?’
It did not matter, nor which chest of drawers belonged to whom. Midday meal would be at 1230 hours, and they had been told they were excused duties for the remainder of the day. What lay beyond they had no inclination to contemplate.
‘Cheer up. The worst’s over. This billet’s goin’ to be all right,’ Vi urged. Already she had inspected the house that stood on the edge of the sea loch. ‘I was talkin’ to a girl in the galley. Seems they leave you alone here to get on with it. No more polishin’ or drillin’ or kit inspection – well, only once a month. And two late passes a week and when you’ve had those you can get in through the pantry window if the front door’s been locked.’ Although Chief Pillmoor wasn’t everybody’s cup of tea, Vi had discovered, at least the lady was fair and had no favourites.
She gazed with compassion at the two dejected figures. Their eyes were dark-ringed, their faces pale and their hair lay dull and uncurled. Kids, that’s all they were and in need of a bit of looking-after. Neither was wearing a ring, but that was nothing to go by. Hadn’t she taken off her own wedding ring and hung it around her neck with her red identity tag and the St Christopher medal Father O’Flaherty had given her? No rings, no questions, Vi had decided.
‘It’ll be fine here,’ she beamed. ‘Just see if it isn’t. And we’ll all feel better when we’ve had a bath and a decent night’s sleep.’
Vi had a roof over her head again, bed and board and two shillings a day pay, and, better than that, she had found someone to mother. The woman from Liverpool was happy. Well, near-as-damn-it happy.
‘They’ve arrived, Ma’am.’ Chief Wren Pillmoor placed three sets of official documents on the officer’s desk. ‘Railways still in a mess after the air raids – they were so delayed they missed the last ferry connection. Spent the night on Glasgow station, it would seem.’
‘Oh dear, I hope they’re none the worse?’ Third Officer Suzie St John was genuinely concerned.
‘A bit travel weary but otherwise okay, Ma’am. Bainbridge, Kendal and McKeown. Two C of E and a Roman Catholic. I’ve put them in cabin 9, next door to the boat’s-crew lot. McKeown is the steward we’ve been expecting and the other two will be working on the ship. They’re all three going to see Sister this afternoon. No problems, that I can see.’
Suzie St John sighed her relief. She was charming and gentle and life had not fitted her to cope with the forty assorted females now in her care. Thus she was constantly grateful for the unfailing vigilance and support of her Chief Wren. ‘Time for a drink before lunch, Pat?’
‘Thanks, love. Sherry, please.’ Formalities over, Patricia Pillmoor drew out a chair, pulled off her hat and settled down for a chat. About Russia, of course. Indeed, there could be no other topic of conversation since it had hit them like a bomb-blast on the early-morning news bulletin. A hundred divisions pouring across the frontier. Russia invaded by Germany, the non-aggression pact between them counting for nothing.
Amazing, when you thought about it, but it was turning out to be an amazing war. And one thing was certain. There would be no invasion of the British Isles, now. Chief Pillmoor raised her glass.
‘Cheers.’ She smiled. ‘Anything new on the wireless about Russia?’
The dying sun turned the hills that ringed Loch Ardneavie from green to misty grey, and trees cast long purple shadows. The new occupants of cabin 9 were tired, yet sleep did not come. Lucinda lay, gazing upward, thinking about her mother so far away in London and about last night’s misfortune, which would have pleased the Countess greatly: three miserable women spending the night on a hard station bench.
‘There you are, I said no good would come of it. Sneaking off and joining up as if this war were some marvellous crusade,’ Mama would have said. ‘It would seem that you can’t even get yourself from A to B without making a mess of it. But if you’d listened to me, you’d be married to Charles now and doing your duty as a good wife should!’
Poor Charlie. He had protested strongly when her call-up papers came. Clever old Goddy, she thought, but Charlie was quite put out.
‘The Wrens, Lucinda? But the Bainbridges always go into the Army,’ but he had forgiven her, eventually, when she promised to try to take her leave when he took his.
‘They usually let you do it,’ he’d told her, ‘if you’re engaged or married. Tell them it’s on compassionate grounds, and you’ll get away with it all right. You really ought to be wearing a ring, Lucinda. Surely there’s something, somewhere, to fit you.’
Indeed there was. Lying in the bank in a strongbox; several Bainbridge rings, in fact. There was even the ruby the first earl gave his wife to celebrate the title bestowed by James Stuart in 1604, but she would have liked a ring, Lucinda brooded, of her very own; a dainty diamond cluster she and Charlie had chosen together. Something new, and hers alone. That, probably, was why her left hand remained bare and the date of their wedding still uncertain. A little romance, she sighed, might just have tipped the scales. But she really must send Charlie her new address and tell him how peculiar it all was; about the strange customs, still revered because Nelson had established them; about rooms which were now cabins, walls which had become bulkheads and a kitchen she must now call a galley. And the saluting was beyond belief. One saluted everyone and everything, even the quarterdeck, the moment one set foot on it. She supposed she would have to salute Charlie now. And one didn’t go to work, one went on watch; pulling the blackout curtains was called darkening ship; and no one went to the lavatory, they went to the heads! Yes, she must write a long